


me and my adventures

by TheGlassFloor



Series: Adventurer [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gay, Humor, Journal Entries, M/M, Time Travel, World Travel, bizarre, but really an adult, narrator is basically a big kid, some casual sex in chapters 14 and 15, unsolved mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-11-19 12:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 9,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18135593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGlassFloor/pseuds/TheGlassFloor
Summary: A mysterious journal found abandoned by the roadside contains entries penned by someone who identifies only as “The Adventurer” and claims to have the power to travel through time, which apparently he mainly uses to procure apartments in various cities and time periods, and also to bed the occasional famous historical figure.His final entry was interrupted mid-sentence, and the author vanished without a trace.Chapters 1-18 contain transcripts of the journal’s entries. Check out chapter 19 for an update on the details surrounding this bizarre unsolved mystery.





	1. slithery bastard

Present day: November 18

Time: approximately 1:30 am

I can’t seem to get to sleep yet.  I suppose that’s because I’m lost in the Amazon rainforest.  I’m sure I’ll find my way out of here sooner or later, but for now I’m sitting here in my itty bitty tent, with my sleeping bag around my waist and legs and a light shining over my head.  Moments ago I was outside toasting marshmallows over a fire, when suddenly I was attacked by an anaconda. Stupid fucker. Shouldn’t they be afraid of fire? I wrestled the slithery bastard for all of about a minute, trying to knock it into the fire, and when I did it sort of just rolled over it and snuffed it out.  I thought I was a goner until a giant sloth jumped out of nowhere and saved my life. At least I think it was a giant sloth.

Sorry for the bit of language.  I’m cranky from the ordeal. Wouldn’t you be?  I think it’s safe to say that I’m much more secure here in my tent.

Looking forward to tomorrow.

Yours,

The Adventurer

 

 

 


	2. the present, or at least something near to it

Present day: November 11

Time: 3:16 pm

I couldn’t figure out how the hell to get out of that blasted rainforest, so I just said screw it and decided to go back in time a week.  Yeah, that’s right, I can travel through time. How I ended up in the Amazon in the first place is a pretty outlandish story that I’d rather just forget.  Today I’m on the streets of New York shopping for designer clothing and furniture. Pretty nice stuff. I’m having it sent to my house in Arizona. I’m thinking of hosting a party there some time.  The landscaping is to die for, but the interior remains empty. Working from the outside in is just the way to go. I’d just better make sure not to undo this timeline, or the party will be standing room only.  Sheesh, here I am obsessing over a party and I don’t even have any friends in Arizona...yet.

I ramble.  Anyhow, about the time-traveling thing.  It’s pretty sweet to be able to visit any moment in the past, present, or future.  That being said, I haven’t mentioned the year for this entry or the previous one in order to eliminate any confusion as to when they take place.  That may sound backwards, so let me clarify. If I were chronicling the events of an important date, such as, oh, say, December 31, 2999 (Millennium New Year’s Eve is pretty important) or October 30, 1938 (Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds radio broadcast--say, I should make a night of that some time), of course I would mention the year, because I would be, undeniably, writing from the past or the future, depending on the case.  But today I am writing from the present, or at least something near it. Obviously if you’re reading this on any other date than November 11, then to you it would be the future (if November 11 hasn’t come yet) or the past (if it’s already passed), but let’s not journey that far into the land of overexamination. If it’s the present year then it’s the present, regardless of what the exact date is.

I’ve just noticed that my shopping bag from Versace is gone.  It was right next to the bench I’m sitting on and now it isn’t.  Blast this crime-ridden city! Oh, wait. It’s on the other side of the bench.  Why would I have put it there?

I best mosey on.


	3. cacti-speckled wasteland

Present day: July 13

Time: 5:04 pm

I’m hang-gliding over the Arizona desert as we speak.  I mean, as I write. I know it’s quite a feat to be doing these two things at the same time.  I’ve had months since my last entry to practice! Just kidding. I time-travelled. You may wonder, did I go forward or backward?  Well, if I’d gone forward it would be next year, which it isn’t. It’s this year, which means I really didn’t go anywhere at all. Convenient logic, no?  The only reason I bothered is that I needed it to be summer. I brought all my furniture with me, which I’ll describe in detail later. Right now I’m gliding in a straight line towards my house.  It sits isolated in the middle of this cacti-speckled wasteland atop a cliff. The sprinklers run practically around the clock to keep my lawn fresh and green amidst this dry, blazing summer heat, something I insist on.  The freshness of my yard, I mean, not the blazing heat. I have no control over that.

I’m pretty close to my house now.  I’m too high, though. I’m going to fly right over it.  Wait a second...who’s that standing on the front porch? Do I know this person?  How’d they get here? Oh, that’s me. Ha ha. I don’t remember running into myself like this.  Unless I just wasn’t paying attention. No, that’s got to be the future me. I like what I’m wearing.  I wonder where I got it?

I just waved to myself.  And now I’m waving back.

I’ve just flown over the house.  I’ll circle back and land now. I’ll ask the other me whether he wants to hang out or hit the road.  That is, if he hasn’t already split by the time I get there. I’m so rude to myself sometimes.

Always a pleasure,

The Adventurer

 


	4. Germench

Present day: July 16

Time: approximately 7:00 pm

“I have a terrible headache.”

That’s exactly what I said when the platinum blonde worker of a Swiss chocolate factory found me slipping about in one of the vats.

“Got any showers in this place?” I asked once he’d helped me out of there.

“Sure, I’ll show you where it is,” he said, a bit disgruntled.  He was speaking in Swiss, of course, as was I to him. Wait...there’s no language called “Swiss”.  Well, it was either French or German, then, or a mix of the two. Frerman. Germench?

As I rinsed the chocolate goo off of myself, I asked the fellow his name.  “Ryan,” he answered. Or was it Rhine? I’m so uncultured.

“What exactly were you doing swimming around in the vat?” he wanted to know.  “A little too fond of chocolate is what I’d call it.”

“How can you call it swimming when that thing is barely three inches deep?” I contested.

“You were doing the backstroke.”

“And my back was in contact with the metal bottom of the vat the entire time.  Not swimming. And for your information, I fell in. I never intended to eat any of that stuff.”  After that I leaned over and heaved brown vomit into the shower drain. “That was accidentally ingested,” I said once I could speak again.

“Well I hope you learned your lesson, Mr. ‘I-fell-into-the-vat’.  I can safely say you’re the most bizarre tourist I ever met.” I found that flattering, considering the insane amounts of people who must visit Swiss chocolate factories every day.

Ryan/Rhine promised he wouldn’t tell his supervisor about the incident if I promised to go to a yodeler’s benefit at a summit on the Matterhorn tomorrow night.  I felt intrigued. I’d never before been invited to such a thing while being naked. I toweled off and got dressed (he loaned me a factory uniform--so much for that Versace outfit.  Oh well, maybe I didn’t like it very much anyway) as I thought it over. Finally I asked, “What’s the benefit for?” Then I added mentally,  _ Protection of the Yeti? _

“Protection of the Yeti,” he said.

Fascinating.  I agreed, then I left to take a cable car (you know, the terrifying suspended kind) to the castle I’m staying in overnight.  Lovely place. Can’t seem to find anybody here, though. It’s like everyone completely forgot it was here. Oh well, fine by me.  Good thing I brought matches, though.

Yours,

The Adventurer

 


	5. worse than Gregorian chants

Present day: July 18

Time: approximately 11:00 am

Yodeling benefit was a snooze.  Not that I don’t enjoy yodeling as entertainment.  I do. I can just never seem to remain awake after around 10 minutes of it.  It’s worse than Gregorian chants. Everything in moderation, as they say. Ryan was one of the better yodelers, but they had him go first, which I think hurt the program.  I kept nodding off, but then I’d have psychedelic nightmares and jerk back awake. Needless to say, I got plenty of rest, and now I’m all set to spend the day skiing. Hooray for skiing!

About halfway through the yodeling program, somebody finally brought up the question that I’d forgotten to consider: “Aren’t Yeti supposed to be in the Himalayas,  _ not _ the Alps?”  The emcee just sort of stood there uncomfortably for several agonizing seconds.  Everything after that from that evening is just a blur.

Energetically,

The Adventurer


	6. under rows of bistro lights

Present day: July 22

Time: 9:08 pm

I decided to save seeing the other continents for later and head on back over to the States.  Napa Valley is beautiful this time of year, and I felt like I was wasting the Northern Hemispheric summer being on a snowy mountain, though I did enjoy all the skiing and bobsledding.  I got a little sick, though, from all the cheese I had to eat. You know, the kind with all the holes in it. God knows how old it was, but it was the only food I could find in the castle.

So anyway, the snobby friend of another snobby friend of someone I’m distantly related to (through marriage) owns a vineyard and he invited me to come.  Well, actually I invited myself, but to him it’s the same damn thing. We’re cool like that.

I arrived just in time for wine tasting.  The folks there that James (that’s Mr. Vineyard Owner’s name) invited were pretty swell, but I had trouble adding anything to most of their topics.  While we were tasting wine I asked them if they’d ever tasted saltwater before. They seemed to think that was an odd question, so I quickly explained to them that I’ve never mixed table salt and tap water and tasted them that way, I was simply referring to ocean water.  But by then the conversation seemed to have taken a different course.

What a bunch of snobs!

The topic of saltwater made me want to go to the beach, then Stephany (I think that’s her name) mentioned wanting saltwater taffy, and then we just sort of clicked.

By the time we got to our five-course dinner--after the horseback riding and tour of the vineyard, that is--I was through with having alcohol, so I just asked for soda.  After a few bites of delicious foie gras, I took a swig of Coke and then spit it out. Mind you, I turned my head to spit it out behind my chair, I didn’t spit it out onto the tabletop like some kind of barbarian.  We were eating outside under rows of bistro lights, so the spit-out Coke only got on the grass, but the others still seemed puzzled by what I’d done. I continued as such while I ate until my glass was half empty (or half full, I should say), and that was when things got interesting.

“Why do you keep doing that?” the snob directly across from me asked.

“Do you mind?” I said.  I like following up people’s questions with another question.

“Well, it’s starting to get annoying.”

“Take it easy,” Stephany said to the guy.  (We’ll call him Ramon.) “He isn’t hurting you.”

“Well he’s starting to worry me,” said Ramon.  “Why does he keep spitting it out?”

“I did it with the wine we were tasting earlier today,” I said, “and that didn’t bother you.”

“Not too fond of the Coke there, huh, Chris?” said the chick a couple seats to my left.  She seemed to think my name was Chris. I think her name is Sam. I’m not sure any of us at James’ vineyard actually knew each other’s names.  At any rate, “Sam” said, “What gives, James?” (Well, at least we all knew  _ his _ name.)  “Can’t you refrigerate the stuff, or do you just let it ferment down in the cellar with the Merlot and the Chardonnay?”

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the Coke,” I said, “I just enjoyed the experience of tasting and spitting out the wine earlier today so much that I can hardly stop myself.  And yes, I know Coke isn’t the same as wine, but there’s an advantage: it gets even more fun when there’s bubbles.”

“I think he’s got a point, Ramon,” said James.  So nice of the host to back me up. Now everyone basically  _ had _ to like me.

(Hot damn, maybe the dude’s name actually  _ is _ Ramon.)

As soon as James said it, Ramon pushed his plate forward.  “You’ve spoiled my appetite,” he said.

I guessed he meant me, so I said, “Oh, you’re such a snob,” and went on eating.

“Who are you calling a snob?” Ramon demanded.

“Well, Ramon,” said the lady sitting next to him, a lady name Esperanza, (hey, as long as we’re just making up names, they might as well sound fancy and interesting) “it sounded to me like he called  _ you _ a snob.”

“You’re all snobs, actually,” I said.  Then came the sound of gasps and silverware clattering on plates, followed by silence.

“There’s no shame in it,” I recovered.  “That’s how we all fit in so well together.  And everyone knows that snobs have more fun. Haven’t you seen the t-shirt?  The one that says ‘snobs have more fun’ on the front in big block letters? No, I suppose you’re too snobby to shop at Spencer’s.  But it’s true, we do. Well,  _ you _ do,” I said, offering a different pronoun.  “I’m not so sure I’m a snob as much as an adventurer, but I do know about fun, yes sir, all about it.  Only fun lovers like us can do things like this…” Then I scooped some food off of my plate with my spoon and flung it at Ramon.  I’ll let you imagine the look on his face rather than try to describe it. After that James flung some food at Stephany, then Esperanza threw some at Sam, then Sam tossed some at James, then Esperanza at Stephany, then Stephany at Sam, then James at me, then me at Esperanza, then Stephany, Esperanza, and James all hurled food at Ramon at the same time…I’m just making up the order here, I don’t know if it actually happened like that, but the point is that everybody joined in the food fight, laughing their heads off the whole time.

Talk about a great night.

Mischievously,

The Adventurer


	7. always more

Time: 11:30 pm

After everybody had adequately cleaned up from dinner, they all headed their separate ways, but James invited me to stay a while longer.  He let me borrow some clean clothes, and nice clean clothes they are.

I guess I forgot to mention in the last entry that I was still at James’ house (at the vineyard) when I wrote it.  The night had not ended altogether by then. I wrote it in the bathroom; one of the ladies kept pounding on the door saying she had to go.  “Isn’t there another bathroom in the house?” I said. Apparently there was not, as she would not relent.

James poured some more wine (the guy just can’t get enough) and we sat in the living room and talked.

“So,” he said, “What do you want out of life?”

“What do you mean?” I said, again with a question following a question.  (Aren’t I good at it?)

“Well, you seem pretty young.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“So what do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?!” James exclaimed.  “Surely you must want something.”

“Not really.”  (I felt like adding, “And don’t call me Shirley.”)  “To want something would mean that I don’t already have everything I want, and, well, I do.”

“Huh,” he said.

“Isn’t it great?”

“What’s that?”

“Having everything you want.  Or rather I should say, wanting everything you have.”

“I suppose it is.  If you say so.”

I laughed.  “Oh come on, don’t you want everything you have?”

“Well of course.  But I’m not so sure I have everything I want.”

My head started to spin (well, not literally, that would be freaky).  “But...how can you...you do, but you don’t?”

This time James laughed.  “They aren’t the same as each other.  Of course I want my house and my vineyard and my stables.  Of course I appreciate them. But if I think outside of the things I have, I realize there are things that I want that I don’t have.  Do you see?”

“I see.”

“What do you like best about your life?”

“Just living it, I guess.”

“And you never feel like anything is missing?”

“With a sweet life like mine?  Hell no.”

He laughed again.  “I hear that. They say money can’t buy happiness, but--”

“Who said anything about money?” I wanted to know. He was confusing me.

“I’m just saying, I have a pretty sweet life too--”

“But you just said you don’t have everything you want!”  I exclaimed. “Gotcha! Ha ha! Oh...I’m sorry. Don’t mean to keep interrupting.”

“I  _ don’t _ have everything.  I do have a lot. But I guess I just sort of believe that there’s always more to be got out of life.”

“I know that’s right.  I’m planning out what I’ll be doing tomorrow in my head as we speak.  I don’t always do that. Sometimes it’s better to be spontaneous.”

“Do you ever feel lonely?” James asked.

“I don’t see why I should.  Take now for example. I’m enjoying your company very much.”

James smiled.  Then he began to lean towards me.

I sneezed.

James wiped his face with his hand.  “Bless you.”

“He does.  Hold on, here comes the aftershock!”  I sneezed again. “Sorry, don’t mean to mess up your couch.  I wonder if I’m allergic to wine.”

James placed his hand on mine.  “Why don’t we go to the bedroom.”

I patted his hand with my other hand.  “No thanks. I’d better be going. Stephany and I are going to the beach tomorrow.  I’m going to turn in...right after I play some pinball!”

James looked confused.  “Stephany?”

_ Crap, _ I thought,  _ maybe that isn’t her name. _  I said: “Umm...yeah.  Thanks, though. Good night!”  Then off I went.

_ That James is a really nice guy, _ I thought as I walked away from his vineyard.   _ And he definitely has the right attitude.  This world is full of swell people that are special each in their own way and are great to get to know, and as long as he realizes that I’m sure he’ll be very happy. _

I walked for miles in the warm summer night, or at least the length of a football field.  There were no city lights way out here in the country, so the farther I walked away from James’ home the darker it got.  Soon it was as dark as night. Probably because it was night. Then I stopped.

“Holy grape juice!” I mused.  “He wanted to have sex! After I sneezed on him!”

I was impressed.  The guy was willing to look past that one flaw and “get to know me” anyway.  How incredibly open-minded!

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t realized it until that very moment, but I didn’t care too much.  I had sex yesterday. I think. Oh, phooey, how can anyone who travels through time keep track?

Always a pleasure,

The Adventurer


	8. dizzy and covered in dew

Present day: June 22, 1072 B.C.

Time: Midnight

Yeah, that’s right.  I time travelled. Went way back this time.  I’m at Stonehenge. A bunch of Druids are having some sort of ceremony with roaring fires and chanting and robes and staffs and talismans and all that jazz.  Quite fascinating. I, however, have been content to roll down the hills repeatedly. “Wee!” It’s quite thrilling at night. Now I’m dizzy and covered in dew, so I’m taking a rest.  (I don’t mind the dew.) This country is wide and open, and the hills are lovely. Great spot for Druids to build themselves a temple. I’m not sure when they built it, but who cares?  The darkness of the night is enchanting, and I feel so safe. I’m tempted to go back up and watch some more of their rituals, but I find it hard to move myself from the bottom of the hill.  I feel like I could stay here forever.

Yours,

The Adventurer


	9. I get to have both

Present day: Approximately 8 years and 3 months before July of the current year

Time: Nearly midnight

I fell asleep and woke up at sunrise still by Stonehenge, covered in more dew and surrounded by fluffy sheep.  I got up and quickly left merry olde England-to-be, but not before noticing that there were no hills--just flatland all around.  What had I been rolling down the night before? There’s a mound and a ditch that encircles Stonehenge...maybe I just kept slipping into that?  I don’t know. It was dark and I think my perception of gravity was a little off. I think the Druids gave me some magical drug (and possibly a disease that no longer exists).  They must have thought I was some sort of avatar sent to them by the gods or the spirits or whatever. I don’t blame them.

Now I’m in the States (again!) and have just visited a past version of myself.  He was thrilled to be going to a theme park with his two friends. Actually, only one of the boys was really his friend.  The other boy was a friend of the friend, and also an inconsiderate butthole. And soon enough he (the younger me) wouldn’t care to be friends with the first boy anymore anyway, so I decided to fast-track things and facilitate the breaking of that friendship a little early, and maybe also get a little catharsis out of it in the process.

I spoke to my younger self, telling him what I wish I’d known then, and he listened, enraptured, marvelling at how cool it was to be able to meet his future self. (It would be some time from that point before I became the adventurer that I am now.)  Later, as I had essentially changed my own history, I felt my memory change along with it. Actually, maybe change isn’t the right word, since new memories don’t overwrite the old, obsolete ones. I get to have both.

Here’s how I remember things originally happening: We were some distance from home, the two other boys and me, and I wanted to call my family to let them know I’d arrived at the park safely, but Butthole didn’t want to wait for me; he wanted to get on a roller coaster immediately, so he and the friend started to run off without me.  Cursing those fools under my breath for ditching me, I hung up the payphone and ran after them. Later on in the night, I still needed to call my family, so I basically bribed them into staying in one place for a goddamn minute by buying them churros. Sure enough, that’s what it took to persuade Butthole and my fickle friend to wait for me.  By the time they were finished scarfing them down, I was finished with my phone call and they were ready to rush off to ride more rides.

Well, I told the cute, little, younger version of myself how all of this was going to happen, and I assured this adventurer-to-be that if he just let the fools run off without him, he wouldn’t regret it.

And I didn’t.

I lost them, of course, but I had plenty of fun riding rides by myself.  So much fun, in fact, that I lost track of time and didn’t meet my friend’s family (his dad drove us) at the preappointed time and place in the park.  Of course the fools were to blame for ditching me in the first place and got in trouble for it. Once I’d realized how late it was, I was a little freaked out (not yet being the adventurer I am now) and called my family again.  My dad drove all the way over to get me. My parents were so upset about what happened that they told my ex-friend’s parents I would never be seeing my ex-friend again. Big whoop. I would have stopped being friends with him soon after that anyway because he bugged the crap out of me.  Good riddance.

I love it when a plan comes together.

Ingeniously,

The Adventurer


	10. the combination of all things

Present day: October 5, 1964

Time: Who cares?

I’d forgotten that my uncle Bruce let me have this apartment in St. Louis.  Well, by this point in time he hasn’t passed it on to me yet, but I know he’s going to eventually so that’s the same as if it already belonged to me. (Right?)  I just have to be careful not to leave any evidence that I was here. I love this furniture. It’s so very mod. It also has that ‘60s origin smell to it that you figure is a smell that home furnishings acquire with age.  On the contrary, they’ve always smelled that way, ever since they were originally manufactured. Of course I’m also suspicious of there possibly being asbestos insulation in this apartment, but if I were truly worried about that then I’d also be worried about the Druidian disease and the countless others as well (I swear, none are sexually transmitted).  I figure it’s actually the combination of all things that keeps the immune system of an adventurer/time-traveler in fine working order.

I found a four-leaf clover on the grounds; I figure that’s enough luck to keep Uncle from dropping by should he grow bored of his Nebraskan farm. (Don’t ask me to explain my family’s endeavors.)

I invited some 1964 St. Louis friends over to play Monopoly and enjoy some good music.  The party just broke up, but not before we all joined in dancing the funky chicken. I did the Macarena and they all thought I was boss.

 

The Gateway Arch under construction, St. Louis, Missouri, 1964


	11. three of me

Present day: March 22, 1948

Time: 7:18 pm

By the time I got to my San Francisco apartment (I acquired it in 1940 and in 1949 the building burns down, so it’s mine all throughout the ‘40s...neat, huh?) at the end of the day’s adventures, it was late and I was quite tired, but when I opened the bedroom door I saw my future self already asleep in the bed.   _ Fine, _ I thought, and went to crawl into bed next to myself, till I saw that another future self had already done so.  I sighed. Why tonight of all nights? Of course I love myself too much to get very angry with myself over such things.  Still, I needed a place to sleep, and three of me in one double bed was nothin’ doin’, and I’d be damned if I was going to sleep on the couch, so I time-travelled from late last night to this morning and kicked the other two me’s out of the bed after their peaceful night’s sleep in it so that I could use it to get some sleep in the daytime.  I woke up several hours later to find the other me’s still in the apartment. I had a headache and they were acting like fools. When they saw me come out of the bedroom they got excited; both said, “I’ve always wanted to have a three-way with myself.” I told them to go fuck themselves, and they said that was precisely the point, and they wanted me to participate.  It was then I realized that they were clearly drunk. I said, “Listen, I know that I’m already going to get two orgasms out of this, so why be greedy?” They looked at each other, then they both gave me a funny look. And then I remembered. These weren’t future me’s, they were past me’s. And this is a prime example of why I shouldn’t drink. I had only a meager recollection of either/both drunken accounts of this day and the previous night, yet even so, such things which I won’t remember I’ll usually wind up witnessing secondhand and feeling embarrassed by my actions anyway.

I couldn’t have slept on the couch even if I’d wanted to.  I just noticed it’s gone. Damn, that was a nice couch. My past selves must have removed it.  I hope they/we/I left it somewhere I’ll find it later. Too bad I can’t remember right now.

Yours,

The Adventurer

  



	12. as I whizz by

Present day: July 23

Time: Rush hour!

“Suckers!” I shouted at the people below us.  “Foolishly clinging to your progress-hindering, outdated technology!  You’re at a standstill!”

I was piloting my flying car--actually, it’s more like a mini-helicopter--over the highway where the traffic was abominable.  I’m talking bumper to bumper. Stephany was in the passenger seat next to me. (That really is her name, by the way.) We were heading for the beach.  We could have gone earlier in the day, but then I wouldn’t have been able to use my personal flying machine from the future because there’d have been no point.  I mean, I guess it would still be fun, but not as fun without all the people below me stuck in their traffic jam, looking up at me jealously as I whizz by overhead.

“Bet you thought I’d forgotten about you,” I said to Stephany.

“It’s all right,” she replied.  “I’d rather go later in the day anyway.  It’s summer, so the sun doesn’t set for a couple more hours.”

I was actually referring to the fact that I’d promised we’d go to the beach the day after the gathering at James’ vineyard, and that was several days ago.  But then I remembered that from Stephany’s point of view, the gathering was only yesterday. It only seems like longer ago to me because I’ve been the one skipping around different times.  I wonder if time-travelling extends my life. I’ve sort of lost track of how old I am.

(I’ve also lost track of how many times I’ve spelled the word “travelling” with two l’s, and how often I’ve spelt it with just one.)

“Where’d you get this thingamajig, anyway?” Stephany asked.

“The future,” I said proudly.

“The future,” she repeated, with a grin and a rolling of the eyes.  “Right.”

It’s true.  In the future, everyone owns a flying car.  Anyone who has seen  _ Back to the Future Part II _ knows that.

When we reached the beach, I gently landed the machine on the sand.  And now here we are. Ah, this is the life.


	13. Has this titling gimmick run its course?

Time: Sunset

I was enjoying the sunshine and the sea air, I even went for a swim in the waves (ick, salty) while some guys flirted with Stephany.  They weren’t ugly. Although, the hottest, most muscularly built guy was wearing a shirt, the bastard. You’re on a beach, fool! If you got that shit, flaunt it!  What a waste!

I wished someone would flirt with me, then I immediately regretted that wish once it was granted.  It seemed that Colin had coincidentally come to this same Northern California beach the same day Stephany and I had.

“Hi, Bob!”

I frowned.  “My name is not Bob!”

Colin is an annoyance I met and was unnecessarily nice to one time (no, that does not mean we had sex) and I’ve regretted it ever since.  We keep “coincidentally” running into each other in different time periods, and in the present time he’s about 70 years old. He was closer to my age in the time we originally met.

A man his age should not be wearing a Speedo.

“But you told me your name is Bob,” he said.

“No,” I said, trying my best not to look directly at him.  “You asked me, ‘Is your name Bob?’ and I said ‘Yes’, but that was only because I didn’t want you to know my real name.”

“Well, what is your real name, then?”

“I’m not telling you!”

He smiled, and it annoyed the shit out of me.  “Well, if I don’t have any other name for you than Bob, I can’t very well call you anything but Bob, so Bob it is.”

“I’ll kill you,” I threatened.  “And I won’t get in trouble for it, because I’ll go back to last night and puncture your tires, so you won’t be able to leave home in the morning, thus throwing off your entire day and eliminating the opportunity for me to off you.  Don’t think I won’t. I’ve done it to four or five people already.”

I was lying.  I could never bring myself to murder anybody.  Even if I went back and changed things to prevent it from happening, I’d still have the memory.

Colin wouldn’t get off my back, and Stephany was off with the guys, so I got fed up and tore off the old man’s Speedo and threw it in the water.  He probably liked it, but he left after that anyway.

Aside from all those preposterous details, it was a great afternoon and I’m really glad we came here.  Next time I’ll bring stuff to make daiquiris. Oops, I forgot, I quit drinking. Oh well, they wouldn’t necessarily have to have alcohol in them.

Cheerfully yours,

The Adventurer


	14. ninety-nine percent perspiration

Present day: July 20, 1878

Time: 10:47 pm

New York City is so weird in the late eighteen hundreds.  Everything looks like shit. I mean, you know, even more so.  The Statue of Liberty won’t be built for a few more years, but they’ve got the arm with the torch over at Madison Square.  Weird.

Going shopping was quite an experience.  No Versace or Disney Store to be found, but I did stumble into an interesting gadget shop.  And I mean that literally, I actually stumbled over the door frame as I stepped inside, but I don’t think anybody noticed.  They were all too busy watching the demonstration of a talking machine. Yes, they were watching a phonograph. Not just listening.  But then, I guess it is interesting, watching that little thing roll over again and again. You know, the cylinder with tiny little bumps all over it.  It was playing the recording of a voice, saying: “I never get tired, and you will never tire of me, for I always have something new to offer…”

“What a guy,” I said with a smile.  “That’s all I ever ask for, anyhow.”

“Sir,” the shopowner said to me, “can I put you down for one as well?”

“No thanks,” I declined.  “I’ve got an MP3 player back where I’m staying.  I’ll be fine. Although, I wouldn’t mind a recording of ‘Coney Island Washboard’ if you have any.”

A man among the gathering of people turned around and faced me.  “M-P-three?” he wondered aloud.

I assumed he thought those were somebody’s initials, so I went with the flow.  “Uh-huh. Milton Pollock the Third is competing with Thomas Edison with a patent of his own.  It’s up to the public to decide which musical player they like best. This is America, after all, and consumers demand quality in the goods they purchase.”

Only then did I realize that the man I was speaking to was actually Thomas Edison himself.  Why had it taken me so long to recognize his face? I let him know immediately that I had simply made all of that up, but despite my embarrassment, I was pleased when he told me that he liked my imagination, and that that’s what inventiveness is all about.  He invited me back to his place, saying he had something better than a phonograph to show to me.

“I thought you were hard of hearing,” I said when we got there.

“Eh?” he said, placing his hand beside his ear.  “How’s that?”

“Well, it’s just that you seemed to hear me pretty well in the store.”

“Oh.  Well, sometimes it depends on how well I’m listening.”

I unbuttoned my jacket and loosened my collar.  I swear, it must be some sort of pathological masochism that keeps me coming back to revisit the nineteenth century.  Don’t get me wrong, the clothes from the period look fantastic, they’re just a bit of a chore.

“So, what was it you wanted to show me?” I said.

Then he unveiled it: the lightbulb.

“You’re the first to see it like this,” he said.  “I haven’t shown anyone else yet.”

Needless to say, I was flattered.

He demonstrated how it worked, and even though I had to pretend as if I hadn’t ever seen a lightbulb before, I didn’t have to fake being impressed; I genuinely was.  Not by the lightbulb itself, but the fact that it was _Edison’s_ lightbulb, and Edison himself was showing it to me.

I loosened my collar some more.

I’ve seen a lot of lightbulbs in my day, but none quite like Edison’s.  It was so large, so powerful, so...bulbous! All of that electricity coursing through it like some incredible wonder, bringing a marvelous glow to the room, to our faces.  And all of it due to the intelligence and persistence of one man.

The lightbulb wasn’t the only thing that was turned on.

I couldn’t take it anymore.  I pulled off my necktie and let my jacket fall to the floor.  “Oh, Tom!” I exclaimed. “Make light to me!”

Either his partial deafness caused him not to notice how I’d misspoken, or he simply knew what I really meant to say; in any case, we got straight to business.

Afterward, I made an offhand remark that I’d like to visit Coney Island and ride the carousel (thinking of that song earlier reminded me), but Tom said he doesn’t care for carousels.  Which, you know, is fine. I can go by myself. Tomorrow, I suppose.

Sincerely Yours,

The Inventor’s Adventurer (Inventurer!)

 

P.S. It appears that the page before this one has been torn out.  How very suspicious.

 


	15. Pumping Wells

Present day: September 30, 1888

Time: 12:27 pm

“Blimey, does this place stink!” I uttered amid coughing and fanning the air in front of my face as I stumbled out of an opium den (again with the stumbling) in the capital of merry olde England.  “Haven’t these people got anything better to do at this hour?”

Dawn approached, and I continued on my way along the road and round the bend, back to where I had been mere minutes before.  Of course, the mutilated body of a prostitute had since been removed by the police, and a cluster of blokes had formed around the area while one of the constables was rubbing off the last of a message that had been scribbled on the wall.

“What did it say?” one of the chaps wished to know.

“It said, ‘The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing’,” answered another.

“What are you, dyslexic?” said I.  “It said, ‘The Juwes are _not_ the men that _will_ be blamed for nothing’.”

“Oi!  ‘Ow do you know?” A bloke demanded of me.

“I have a polaroid,” I said, holding it up and waving it around in his face.  Then I yawned. Having stayed up all night wandering, I was plenty beat. “You there,” I said, pointing to the fellow standing closest to me, “I’m tired.  Take me to your place.”

“Jolly good,” he replied.

(Don’t ask me why, but nine times out of ten, when I tell someone I’d like to sleep over at their place, they let me.)

“But it’ll cost you,” he added.

I sighed.  “Fine,” I said as we began to walk together away from the crime scene.  “But only if you top. I haven’t got the stamina.”

 

* * *

 

“So, you’re a writer, eh?” I said while taking off my shoes.  I had gathered that much information by the time we got to his place.

“Yes.  And you know, many doubt this, but I have found it to be true: in order to be a good writer, one must be willing to write badly at times.”

“What a pile of shit,” I said through a yawn while removing my jacket.  Then I added, “I guess you’re right, though. It’s just a tough thing to manage.  I’m a writer myself--sort of--but I’m also sort of a perfectionist, and a pompous bastard, and if I can’t do something perfectly the first time, I don’t even want to bother trying.  Yeah, I know it’s wrong. I’m working on it.”

The chitchat ceased, and we got...well, _busy_ , and Herbert (he told me his name on the way over) kept repeatedly saying “Yes… Yes… Yes…” to the same rhythm of his hip movements, until I politely asked him to stop.  So then he started rhythmically respirating instead, puffing in my face and sounding rather like some unfortunate animal that someone’s bound and gagged and keeps hitting repeatedly in the ribs.  (Not that I _actually_ know what that sounds like.)  I ordered him to stop, less politely this time, and also to stop tickling me with his big, bushy mustache.

Suddenly, something about this guy seemed awfully familiar.  His voice, in particular, reminded me of a radio program I once heard, featuring H. G. Wells.

“Oh my God, it _is_ H. G. Wells!”

“I say!” he exclaimed.  “I SAY!”

“Yikes!  Get off me!”

I shoved him to the other side of the bed; he collapsed onto his back with his eyes closed, so I assumed he was good and finished.  That final outburst of his certainly made it sound like he was.

“You look so...young!”

He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at me.  “Just how old do you think I am?”

I tried to remember what year he was born, then did some quick counting on my fingers up to the year we were currently in, to rightly determine that he was of proper boning age.

“Um...twenty-two?”

“Jolly right.”

I let out a sigh.  What a fool I was. The man had even told me his name was Herbert.

“Listen, no hard feelings,” I said.  “It’s just...I always seem to confuse you with Orson.”

“Who?”

“I always forget, Orson Welles is the one with the deep, sultry voice, H. G. Wells has the high, squeaky voice that sounds like a chipmunk.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“And of course it doesn’t really help that I heard both of you together on the radio once.”

He frowned.  “The what?”

“Never mind.  Look, you were great, really, but I’m exhausted.”  I yawned for about the hundredth time in so many hours and laid my head down on the pillow.  “Good night,” I said, though as I said it I noticed with a glance at the window that it was already morning.

At that moment, H. G. grabbed a knife off of the bedside table and raised it above my body.  I screamed in terror.

Then I woke up.  I glanced at the clock on the mantle: it was noon.  The flat was empty. When had I fallen asleep? How much of what had happened was real, and how much was just a dream?

I dressed in a flash and got the hell out of there.  As I proceeded to leave London, I contemplated the strange occurrences of the last few hours.  I guess the opium smoke made me gloss over the fact that this was the night that Jack the Ripper had murdered not just one, but _two_ women of the night, out in the streets, and here _I_ was, going home with someone I didn’t know (even if he did turn out to be the Father of Science Fiction--what a coincidence) and bumping hairy man uglies in exchange for shelter and a bed… Didn’t that kind of make me a whore?  As cocky as I felt for adding the author of _The War of the Worlds_ and _The Time Machine_ to the notches on my proverbial bedpost, I still couldn’t help wondering if the dream of H. G. nearly murdering me was my subconscious mind’s way of chastising me.

But of course, I’ll never really know.

Yours,

T. A.


	16. Cold

Present day: February 2, 1940

Time: 6:33 pm

It’s colder than you-know-what here in the Yukon Territory.  (And if you don’t know what, don’t ask me, because I don’t either.)  I fancied an outdoor hike today, in a dorky pair of snowshoes and a thick, leather parka.  Yeah, they’re all the rage (the leather parka, not the dorky snowshoes), or at least they will be fashionable in some as-yet-undetermined time in the future.  At least that’s what I was told by the friend who gave it to me. I wonder whatever happened to him?

I set out for this part of the world to look for gold, ‘cause why the hell not?  I wanted to get a head start before all the other miners showed up, but I guess I had a brain fart, because I realized when I saw a Cadillac driving by on a paved road that this was 1940, not 1840, so the gold rush is long over and I’m way too late.  (This is probably the wrong time of year, too.)

Oh, well, honest mistake.  I guess I was getting tired of the Gilded Age anyway...although come to think of it I seem to remember owing a favor to Samuel Clemens for some reason...Why can’t I remember?  Is all the time-travelling I’m doing messing with my head?

Oh, speaking of favors, I did one for myself, but I’ll get to that in a moment.

Anyhow, I was out here, walking around nature’s frozen wonderland, enjoying the bitter cold (as much as it actually is possible to enjoy freezing one’s cojones off), when I spotted a totem pole.  I’ve always had a soft spot for totem poles, especially when it snows because then I can throw snowballs at them. And if it’s summertime and there’s no snow, I just use mud.

(I’m totally kidding, I would never do that.)

I sat down and contemplated the pole for a while, ignoring my butt getting wet and going numb as the silently falling snow gradually buried the column of faces on the pole, to my ever-increasing amusement.  After an hour or five of this form of recreation, the cold was no longer enjoyable--in fact it was boring me to death. I decided I’d had enough and proceeded to stand up, only to realize I hadn’t brought along a tent to spend the night in.  The nearest lodge was quite a distance, but I soon realized my good fortune when I spotted the Hawaiian tiki perched at the very top of the pole, blending in but also standing out among the other carved wooden images below it. Why’d it take me so long to notice it?  It wasn’t just any tiki, it was  _ my _ tiki from my ‘60s apartment in St. Louis.  A future version of myself must have left it for me as a clue.  I’m so considerate! I’ll have to return the favor by putting the tiki up there for myself to see, later on.  You know, in order to keep the space time continuum intact and all that. I better bring a ladder.

I knocked the tiki down with a snowball and gave it a good look-see.  A message was carved onto the back, reading: “100 paces north”. Actually, only the 1 and the first 0 of “100” were actually carved; after that I must have gotten impatient and just wrote the rest of it with a permanent marker.  I don’t blame myself one bit.

What was a hundred paces north?  I’d soon find out.

“...ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred!”  With the final step I looked up from my feet, and just in time.  Another inch and I would have collided face-first with the front door of a log cabin.

“Woo-wee!  Good thing I brought my compass!”

I remembered the cabin immediately.  I built it some time in the Gilded Age (and by built I mean I hired other people to build it for me), but then after that I guess I forgot about it, until now.  I entered, not knowing what I’d find inside, but fortunately I know myself well enough (imagine that) to have provided every imaginable comfort. Forget about coal furnaces, an electric heater was already running, making the place toasty warm.  A microwave oven sat beside half a dozen cans of ravioli, and a wardrobe containing some pretty cute outfits was situated between a bed and a canasta table, which had a framed picture of my cousin Sarah pretending to hang herself with the pashmina I gave her for Christmas one year placed on its surface.

I set the tiki down on the table next to the photo and changed my clothes.  After that I ate and wrote this entry. Which brings us to now. I guess I’ll have some s’mores (good thing I brought graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate bars along with my gold mining supplies) and then work on some Sudoku puzzles before going to bed, whenever that ends up happening.

 

Yours,

T. A.

(That stands for “The Adventurer”, in case you forgot.)


	17. More Cold

Present day: November 30

Time: 4:02 pm

Kish, kish, kish.  “Woo!”

Kish, kish, kish.  “Woo!”

Kish, kish, kashity-kash.  “Yikes!” My sunglasses went flying.  “God bless it!” I shouted in frustration.  Then I fell in the snow. Face first. Ryan stopped rolling the camera and helped me up.

(Remember Ryan/Rhine, the platinum blonde dude from Switzerland?  I’m still not sure how to say his name. I invited him to come and hang out with me in Aspen, Colorado, even though I don’t live here and wouldn’t necessarily want to.  But I needed someone to film me skiing, and who better to ask than someone who’s already familiar with snowy mountain terrain? I had loads more trust in a European than I would in a fellow American who’d probably moan and complain the entire time.)

“Man, this is insane,” I complained.  “I thought for sure I had it that time.  I was coming down the slope at a good speed, not too fast but not too slow, I smiled for the camera, I stirred up the powder so that it made that ‘kish’ sound, I even remembered to yell ‘Woo!’ so that anyone watching would know what a good time I was having.  I guess this kind of multitasking is harder than I thought.”

Did I mention I was skiing?  I suppose that was obvious. I’m not bad at skiing, I just kept losing my balance and falling for some reason.

“Should we try again?” Rhine asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.  The sun is shifting.  It has to be at just the right angle to reflect off of my sunglasses so that the camera picks it up.  By the time I get back up the hill it’ll probably be too late.”

“Couldn’t you just do it without the sunglasses?”

“Of course not!  Big, shiny sunglasses are an iconic look among yuppies at ski resorts.  What kind of yuppie could I ever hope to be without them?”

“Beats me.  Why would you want to be a yuppie anyway?  Aren’t yuppies a thing of the past?”

“Perhaps, but that’s beside the point.  The image of a person skiing down a snow-covered hill, going ‘kish, kish, woo!’ with the sun reflecting in their sunglasses is eternal, recognized by even the snobs of today: people like my friend James and his friends in Napa.”

“Let me get this straight: you want to make a video of yourself with that image to try to impress some people in Napa?”

I unzipped Rhine’s bag and took out the block of cheese he’d brought along (you know, the kind with all the holes in it), broke off a hunk and started munching it as I spoke: “I don’t have to ‘try’ to impress anybody.  It happens on its own. But that doesn’t mean I won’t accept a challenge when something slightly beyond my normal facilities presents itself. Oh, hell, let’s just go. We’ve got enough takes that I can just splice them together into a single video and it’ll look fine.”

“Okay.  Are we still on for dinner, then?”

I winked at him.  “Beside a roaring fireplace as discussed.  You know I can’t pass up a fine sausage like yours.”

Ryan gasped.  “How did you know I was making Swiss sausage for dinner?  You peeked in the refrigerator, didn’t you?”

“Guilty as charged.”

I’m back at the lodge now, and I think it’s time I get showered.  Toodle-oo.

 

Yours,

The Adventurer


	18. Untitled

Present day: December 3

Time: 8:06 pm

“What are we doing at the Grand Canyon?” Rhine wanted to know.

“The real question,” I said, “is what  _ aren’t _ we doing at the Grand Canyon.”

“That doesn’t make the least bit of sense,” Amanda contested.

“It made perfect sense to me,” I said in English.  Amanda was speaking English too. We are in America after all, though Arizona sure took its sweet time before finally joining the Union in 1912.

Ryan, however, being from Switzerland, doesn’t speak very much English at all.  And Amanda, a young lady from California who says she remembers me fondly from some time long since past (I don’t really remember her, but she insists she remembers me, so who am I to argue?) apparently found some grammatical flaw in the mixture of French and German that I was speaking to Ryan (there might have been a little Italian thrown in, too) in order for him to understand me.

People seldom cease to surprise me.

“Come on,” Amanda’s friend Kim said to her, “gimme a break.  You didn’t really understand anything either of them said.”

“Exactly,” Amanda confirmed.  “It made no sense to me.”

“And that makes even more sense!” I said, beaming.

I translated for them what Ryan said, and Kim replied, “The real question is what are we doing at the Grand Canyon at this time of the year?  It’s colder than you-know-what.”

I gasped with glee. “Actually, I  _ don’t _ know what...Do you?  Because I’m dying to know.”

Kim shook her head.  “No, I don’t.”

“Damn.”  Disappointed again.  “Well, maybe we can save exploring the canyon for a warmer time.  I just wanted to take you guys somewhere interesting before heading over to my house.  I guess we’ll go there now!”

A short drive later (though everything is relative when you think about it) we found ourselves way out in the desert staring high, high up at my beautiful cliff.

“How are we supposed to get up there?” Amanda wanted to know.

I scratched my head.  “Good question. I usually land on it from above.  There is another way, though, I just need to think.”

About an hour later the four of us finally stepped onto the front porch, scratched and dirty.

“Boy, that was some climb,” I said.  “We’d better take off our shoes before going inside.  I don’t want to ruin my nice carpeting. In fact, why don’t we just take off all our clothes now and leave them out here?  I’ve got plenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Adventurer’s journal ends here.


	19. Update

The Adventurer’s journal was discovered in a rectangular candy tin alongside Route 66 just outside of Kingman, Arizona.  The only other object inside the tin was this photo:

 

 

The address of an apartment building that once existed in St. Louis is written on the back of the photo, possibly the location of the apartment mentioned in chapter 10.  The building was demolished in 1979 and a shopping mall was constructed in its place.

 

A drawing of the constellation Orion on a tattered, old piece of paper was found near Stonehenge, miraculously preserved among some other ancient artifacts.  It seems to match the torn-out page shown in chapter 14. Although radiocarbon dating allegedly reveals the page to be over 3000 years old, the archaeologists responsible for its discovery have dismissed it as a hoax, stating that no such item could have existed in Britain at that time.

 

The page is currently part of the private collection of an individual who identifies only as “Sarah” and claims to be The Adventurer’s cousin.  She has yet to respond to requests for further information.

 

Efforts are currently underway to identify and locate Ryan/Rhine and James, but so far none of the persons interviewed have expressed familiarity with any of the events described in the journal.

 

Who is the Adventurer?  What happened to him? Why did he stop writing in his journal in the middle of a sentence, and what events led to it being left where it was later found?  The search for answers continues.


End file.
